


Sentiment

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns, John feels as if he's been hit in the stomach. Twice. With a mallet.<br/>But sometimes pain can also be intoxicatingly sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Sentyment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/675963) by [chupaChak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chupaChak/pseuds/chupaChak)



Even breathing seems worthless right now.

It is worthless, it is small, it is miniscule.

It is nothing.

Breathing might break the quiet. Breathing might break the spell.

They listen to each other's heartbeat, John clutching Sherlock's neck and shoulders, face buried in his hair, Sherlock twisted against Watson's chest, squeezing his arms as he presses his cheek against the wool of the other man's jumper. The doctor sits on the detective's lap, and they've been frozen and still in this position for what feels like hours and days, but is maybe just a handful of minutes. Perfect minutes, sweet minutes, minutes neither of them can really manage to define. 

Sherlock's jaw is still throbbing where John punched him when he came in from work and saw him sitting in his usual chair, violin in hand, glint in his eyes. It's a low, dull throb that radiates through his skull and into his neck but he couldn't care less about it. For now all he can bring himself to do is feel John's chest rising and falling ever so delicately against his face, eyes tight, feeling his scent - milk and honey and warmth - fill him to the brim, a scent that seeps into his bones and skin and flesh, a scent that he knows tastes of _home_. His legs are starting to cramp but he knows John needs this - thirty six months which were longer than a lifetime have made the doctor sick with pain and worry and need.

His eyes flutter open and he's staring into space, at the flat, at his papers and books and equipment neither John nor Mrs. Hudson have had the heart to move or throw away.

Sentiment is something he knows happens to others who are weaker (or just more human) than himself and Mycroft, but maybe sentiment is all he has left. He knows John _needs_  him, knows that John is desperately and helplessly in love with him even though the doctor's never admitted it to anyone, let alone himself: but his quickened pulse and the subtle change in breathing and the clear, unmistakable way they're knotted together on the black leather chair tell more than any deduction ever could.

The most puzzling thing of all is that maybe he needs this, too, because his pulse is quickened, and his breathing's slightly changed and something _different_  has blossomed inside of his chest, and it's something sweet and painful.

Sentiment? Perhaps. Thirty six months of having to watch him from afar and here they are, closer than they've ever been. It's new and yet it feels natural and right. Sherlock's trying not to dissect this, but his mind is ever churning, and maybe John's scent - poignant and musky - could do just that for him, could slow him down and for a second he shuts his eyes again as John starts running his fingers through his curly, black hair - he shuts his eyes and his mind is caught in a blankness that does not scare him, it is the blankness of comfort, of feeling his only friend's heartbeat so close to his very own.

John is trying not to cry. He presses his face into Sherlock's hair and he is trying, and trying, and trying not to cry. He knows Sherlock must be deducing a million and one little things about him right now, analyzing and dissecting and understanding, and in all honesty he feels some kind of humiliation creep up because there's rapid hearbeats and ragged, quick breaths and dilated irises and God knows what else. God knows what his heart's doing right now, his hand still hurts from colliding with Sherlock's cheekbone (because, initially, he'd translated the surprise and bittersweet relief into rage and deep, dark, scary betrayal) and he suddenly and burningly wants to run his thumb along the face of a man, up to that day, he was desperately and uselessly trying to wipe out of his memories. A man who's just toppled back into his life and grabbed it by the throat and John hopes, God how he hopes for Sherlock to never let go of his life again. 

He needs that man like he needs sunlight and warmth and air. He needs him like water and food, sleep and birds chirping and grey, unmerciful yet beautiful London. He needs Sherlock and he can't really understand _why_ he needs him so much.

The quietness of the flat and their stilless amplifies the fear and rage and betrayal and love, love, _love_  that churn inside of him, he presses his face harder against Sherlock's head as Holmes slightly shifts his position and makes it so his arms wrap tighter around the doctor's body.

Watson doesn't - can't - let Sherlock go. Even if he wanted to, every inch of himself is screaming to hold on. Because Sherlock was dead and now he isn't, and questions and resentment can be said and asked later.  For now, the only thing John can bring himself to do is breathe Sherlock's scent in - dust and cigarettes and soap. It's a scent he thought he'd never smell again, a scent that fills his every fiber as he starts, almost absent-mindedly, to run his hand through his best friend's hair, feeling the curls wrap around his fingers, springy, soft, warm.

He breathes in hard, he's still too scared to speak, afraid that the dream might burst, that one word will make Sherlock slip away again, melt away like smoke.

Sherlock lets one of his hands slowly creep up along John's body until his thumb is resting right where the neck meets the shoulder, a small swatch of skin.

He finds the vein, presses against it. He feels John's blood throb: it makes his stomach stir in ways he can't quite define yet.

Watson gasps when he feels slender, delicate fingers glide against his skin, when Sherlock delicately places a cold thumb against his neck. The doctor rests his cheek against the other man's head.

Their breathing is, for a long time, the only barely audible sound.

"You were supposed to be _dead_." John Watson finally brings himself to whisper, and his voice cracks: tears and long quietness.

Sherlock doesn't move.

"I know, John."

" _I was supposed to forget you_."

Sherlock moves his hand and grabs John's. Their fingers knot together, and they seem to fit perfectly. Long, webby fingers and strong, rough ones. Mis-matched puzzle pieces that somehow look like home.

He doesn't quite know what doing this will lead to as far as their relationship is concerned. He didn't know right from the start, from when he let John curl up on his lap and hold him. But he senses that holding John's hand is an entire different matter, he's crossed a line he can never come back from.

Sentiment makes Sherlock Holmes feel dizzy as the man he thinks he loves kisses the top of his head and cradles him while his voice cracks. He feels the wetness of John's warm tears.

"I hate you, Sherlock Holmes." John says, thinking about three years of excruciating pain and emptiness.

Thirty six months, one hundred and fifty six weeks and one thousand and ninety five days of waking up and lying in bed and seeing, over and over, still bodies and blue empty eyes and asphalt stained with red. Angel dive, broken bones, splintered dreams. Nothingness. The snow, the rain, the seasons.

Life goes on and you tell yourself the love you had for him was nothing but infatuation.

John had lied to himself, and not once had he believed himself.

Watson squeezes Sherlock's hand.

"I hate you so, so, _much_." he says once again.

But they both know it could never be true.


End file.
